He slowly pulls out and stares at me through hooded eyes and I can feel him drag along every nerve inside me. “You’re fucking incredible,” he says, and then he slides his hand up into my hair and makes a fist. He pulls my head toward his, his mouth capturing mine.
The kiss is searing and sweet and wet and I groan between his lips as he starts thrusting back into me. There’s so much hunger building through me that the only way out is through our probing tongues and clashing teeth, this need to consume him. The need for him to consume me.
Usually I have a first kiss and then that eventually leads to sex but this time it’s all been backwards. And yet I wouldn’t have it any other way. This chaotic, messy, almost crude way of coupling feels like the only way to get what I want, what I need.
“How do I feel?” he murmurs into my mouth, his voice thick. “Tell me how good my cock feels.”
Another thing I’m not used to. With my ex, I could barely say the word cock without giggling like a schoolgirl. But now, with this dirty prince, I feel like I’m a different person, just for tonight.
“You feel amazing,” I tell him, my voice taking on a husky quality that would give Scarlett Johansson a run for her money. “How do I make you feel?”
“Like a fucking king,” he says without missing a beat, kissing me again, wet and chaotic and wild. With his grip in my hair tightening and the other ripping my other breast free of my dress, he dips his head and sucks my nipple in between his teeth. Hard.
“Oh fuck,” I cry out, my words melting into intelligible moans as my hands fly to his shoulders, gripping him tight. For a moment I’m reminded that he’s still injured but he doesn’t seem to give a shit at this moment. Honestly, neither do I. His bluntness has rubbed off on me and now all I want is to come, to feel that wild release.
I’m not far off either. His hips keep pumping into me, enough so that my head almost smashes back into the mirror, his hand softening the blow.
Lips and teeth suck and bite at my breast until I’m nearly coming just from that.
I feel swollen and bruised and beautiful.
Fingers reach down between my legs and slide against my clit and that’s when the world starts to open, spreading and building along with the pressure inside me.
“I’m going to come,” I gasp, surprised, nearly betrayed by my body for having such an instantaneous reaction.
“Good,” he grunts, hips pistoning until I’m sure we might be black and blue, and then his fingers are stroking me steadily, his lips sucking sharply along my neck.
“Fuck!” I cry out, the wave reaching me before I can have a chance to prepare. My body quakes and shudders and I’m trying not to yell because I know this has to be secret but at the same time I am screaming inside with my release.
I bite into his shoulder, tasting the fabric of his shirt and the sweat beneath, and I’m coming over his cock, squeezing and riding him until I can’t remember my name or who I am or where I am and why I’d ever care about anything but this.
My god.
The world doesn’t right itself right away. It tips over and over on its axis and then I’m dragged along wave after wave of bliss and pleasure until the next thing I know is Prince Orlando is pulling himself out of me, placing me back down on the ground, and then turning me around so that I’m bent over the sink.
My knees are shaking. I barely have enough time to reach out with my hands to keep myself steady against the tiles before he’s gipping my hips, pulling my bare ass toward him. He pushes my underwear back to the side and tries to push his cock in but gets stuck.
With a hungry growl of frustration, he grabs the underwear and rips them right off of me. It’s just a cheap thong that could barely contain my hips as it was, so it tears with ease. The sound echoes off the walls.
“Fuck that was hot,” he says through a groan, before he digs his fingers into the flesh of my hips and thrusts back inside.
I’m beside myself, stretched to the brim again and already needing more of him. All of this, again and again. His groan deepens as he pumps into me and I’m back to gasping. Even though I’m soaked and still raw and throbbing from earlier, he still fills me until there’s no more room.
“God you feel so good,” he says thickly, his body slapping against mine as he drives deeper and deeper. “We look so good. Look at yourself. Look at what I’m doing to you.”
I look up at the mirror which is just inches from my face and see our reflection.
We look good. I mean, if this was a high-class porno. I barely recognize myself. My hair is down and in knots, my cheeks red, my pupils dilated. Both my tits are hanging out of my dress, looking pink and full as they sway from each thrust.
Then there’s him. The prince in the mirror. God, he really is sex on a fucking stick. His white shirt is sweat-soaked as it sticks to his massive shoulders, and half-unbuttoned, showing a glimpse of hard, tanned chest. The rolled-up sleeves that show off the bandages on his forearm only make it hotter. The fact that he wanted to fuck me this badly, that being injured didn’t even matter to him.
His face is what makes it though. Such a beautiful face contorted in a beautiful way. With eyes pinched shut, his mouth is open and wanting and I can hear the ragged breaths as he struggles to contain himself.
I’m making him feel this way.
Then his eyes fly open and strike mine in the reflection that’s being fogged up by our heat, by my gasps for air. They spark, like there’s a livewire between us. I feel more captivated by the lust in his gaze than I do by the relentlessly pounding of his cock.
“Come again for me,” he says, and before I have a chance to tell him to make me, he makes me.
His hand slips between my legs and finds where I’m swollen and drenched and greedy and that’s all it takes.
“Oh, god,” I cry out, and I have to look away, the top of my head pressed against the mirror as he slams into me and as my world explodes once more. “Oh god, oh god!” The words spill out and the lights behind my eyes turn to pinks and blues and stars, swirling like a galaxy and I have that feeling that I’m no longer in my body anymore, I’m somewhere else entirely.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” The staccato flow of Orlando’s grunts and groans fill my ears and his fingers tighten so hard around my waist and hips, it’s almost violent. His hips thrust into me once, twice, his cock driving in deeper than ever before, the breath pulled out of me, and then I feel him coming, the shaking and the quivering as his body releases inside me.
Dear god.
I can’t even think. Thoughts try to build but they float away as quickly as they appear. All I know is that my heart is trying to break through my rib cage and that being breathless has never made me feel so good. Every part of me aches and throbs in complete satisfaction.
Reality slowly returns.
The fact that I’m bent over the bathroom sink in the royal palace, my dress hiked around my waist, my hair tangled.
Face pink.
Delirious.
Happy.
Prince Orlando of Monaco behind me, his handsome flushed face looking both smug and sated at once. He meets my gaze again in the mirror and then slowly pulls out.
I immediately feel empty without him inside me, like he filled some need, however brief, that I didn’t know I had.
He quickly tucks his cock back into his pants and zips them up, then grabs a hand towel and runs it up between my legs, cleaning me off.
My legs themselves feel unsteady, so he reaches over and helps me straighten up and turn around. I laugh as I attempt to shove my boobs back in my dress, while he pulls the dress down over my hips.
Then he looks at me and smiles.
“Are you going to keep your hair down?” he asks, reaching back and brushing it over my shoulders. “Or will it be too obvious that I just fucked you?”
“I’m not sure what your family is used to,” I tell him, turning back around so I can see myself in the mirror. “But mine would never even imagine such a thing
.”
“Because the single mom is never allowed to enjoy herself? Be a sexual being?”
I pause for a moment before I pull my hair back off my head and start twisting it around into a quick updo that I hope no one will inspect. I don’t have anything to say to that, probably because it’s true.
“How old are you?” he asks, as he hands me my diamond hair clip.
“Thirty-four,” I say with a frown. “Why? How old are you?”
“Same damn age.”
“Isn’t that lucky.”
“It is. We’re young. Younger than the world seems to think we are. I don’t know if it’s society or if it’s being a royal, but this isn’t the end, it’s only the start. You don’t have to play the role of the single mom who has given up on getting what she really wants, just because you think you have to at your age.”
I study him, nearly giving him the stink-eye. “Might I remind you that you don’t know me.”
“Maybe not,” he says. He licks his thumbs and then smooths back the loose hairs from my hairline. “But I know what you feel like from the inside and I know what you sound like when you come. That’s good enough for me.”
He leans in close, his breath hot on my cheek. “I like you. I liked this. So I’m just reaching out and telling you the truth. We both have roles to play, roles that were handed to us. But they don’t have to define us. And they don’t have to contain us.” He places a slow kiss at my cheek. “Believe me, Your Highness, when I say that I know.”
Then Orlando pulls back and flashes me his carefree smile. He picks up his suit jacket and slings it over his shoulder as he opens the door. “Come on. We have a dinner party to return to.”
And just like that, he’s walking away from me and down the hall.
When I step back out, it feels like the whole world has changed.
I take a deep breath in, pat down my hair, and follow Orlando back to the dining room.
Chapter 4
Orlando
I wake up in pain.
At first I thought it was all in my dream. I was running down the halls of a palace lined with red velvet walls and black floors, chased by a herd of wild pigs with blood running down their tusks. They meant to kill me and as I ran and ran, I yelled for help, not sure where to turn.
Finally I turned a corner into a ballroom and saw my father standing in the middle of it with a rifle, dressed in his ridiculous safari hunting gear.
But instead of helping me, my father turned the gun on me and I had to run back.
The pigs got me right on the arm, which hurt and throbbed and ached until the dream spit me out.
Except now that I’m awake and staring up at a strange ceiling with gold and white mouldings, I realize that my arm actually hurts like a motherfucker.
I stare at it all bandaged, lying on top of the lush teal quilt. It looks okay. Not bleeding much, not swollen, but it definitely aches.
Fucking pig.
Snarf Snarf?
What the hell kind of a name is that?
And what the hell was I thinking playing hero, thinking I could just tackle a pig and be okay? I hadn’t at all been prepared for how huge and strong that fucker was and how hard he’d fight back.
All to impress a fucking lady.
Well, actually, a princess.
Not that I was going to let anyone get trampled by that runaway hunk of bacon, but I definitely wasn’t going to let that happen to her. I also wasn’t going to let it run around the King of Denmark’s palace and tear it to shreds. So I stepped in.
I don’t regret it.
It ended up in the best fuck I’ve had in a long time.
Maybe ever?
I don’t know, but it was definitely something.
When I stepped into this palace, into that stuffy sitting room filled with portraits of high-cheek-boned miserable people, and saw Stella, standing there, looking beautiful and uncertain, I immediately felt something for her. Nothing emotional, nothing sweet, though perhaps not as crude as what I voiced to her, that she was a woman that needed to come on my cock.
Oh, that thought passed through my head for sure. But it was more than just some lustful twitching in my pants. It was like I knew her in some strange way. Or maybe it was just the feeling of relief to see someone like her there. Someone I could maybe relate to for once.
She was looking at me like she immediately disliked me, which is hot. I’ve always loved a challenge. Especially when I saw that it wasn’t coming from the usual place, the way that most other royals and aristocrats look at me and my family. She wasn’t being a snob, she saw something that rocked her foundations a little. Made her a little uncertain, maybe a little scared.
As gorgeous as she looked with her regal posture and hair piled on her head like strands of silken wheat, begging to be let down, and her pouty lips, delicate features and beguiling blue eyes, I could tell that this wasn’t the place for her. She didn’t belong in a palace where she had to watch everything she did and pretend to be king for a day. She belonged out there in the real world.
Of course I knew about her before I came here. When my mother announced she wanted to do a tour of the Nordic kingdoms, I did a bit of due diligence and researched the countries, the families and their backgrounds. After all, I’ll be the head of Monaco one day. We never get the title of king, yet as princes we wield more power over our kingdoms than any other monarchy. And a good future ruler prepares for everything.
I learned that Princess Stella is King Aksel’s only sibling.
Their father died a few years ago, thrusting Aksel into the role as King.
He had a wife, Helena, who later died tragically in a car accident. I remember that very well since Helena had a Princess Diana vibe about her, beloved and beautiful and always doing charity work (in fact my sister, Matilde, was inspired by both of them).
Aksel has two daughters from that marriage. He then fell in love with his Australian nanny, which caused a great scandal, even though they now have twin sons together and she’s become the queen, while his sister Stella is divorced with a young daughter.
With all that research in the back of my head, I thought I knew what I was getting into when I first went to Copenhagen, but Stella threw me for a loop. It wasn’t just that I knew some things about her, it’s that when I looked in her eyes, I thought I knew her. Deeply. Like we were cut from the same cloth. Maybe just by the press, or maybe by our families, but I knew that she knows exactly what it’s like to be tied to a role in such a way that you can’t remember the person you once wanted to be.
I also knew she wanted me. That was apparent. And if the tabloids had been true, she deserved a damn good fuck. I wanted to show her a good time, let her hair down—literally. Push her buttons a little. Yeah, so maybe I was a bit of a bastard with her at times, leading her on and then pretending I wasn’t interested, but I like to have fun too.
I groan, both from the throbbing in my arm and the throbbing in my dick. Just the thought of her sweet perfection has me horny as hell. I could have gone all night with her. I wanted to. Fucking her like that in the bathroom—as hot as it was—wasn’t enough for me. But this wasn’t something we could flaunt in the open or even around our families. So we went back to the dining room and finished up the rest of the night, with everyone making a fuss over my pig-tackling and subsequent injuries.
When the night was winding down, Stella excused herself, not meeting my eyes. And just like that, she had gone to bed early and I wasn’t about to start roaming the halls of the king’s palace, looking for her bedroom (though the thought did briefly enter my mind).
Now we’re supposed to push off somewhere else today. Sweden, I think, though I’m dreading that considering the gross things my stepmother was saying about the prince. We’re better off going to Norway to see Prince Magnus, who I consider a friend of mine since we sometimes race cars against each other, but he’d probably welcome her attention since he’s an attention-whore.
I groan at t
he thought. To be honest, I would rather stay here. I might act like my family isn’t strange or embarrassing, but I know they can be a bit much. Here, it feels safe. Stella and her aunt have seen the worst, plus there’s the fact that I was injured. Anything that could have gone wrong last night for our first tour of the Nordic royals did in fact go wrong, and if I’ve learned anything, that usually means it’s just going to get worse.
I contemplate going back to bed but a quick glance at my phone tells me that it’s past nine a.m. I’ve slept in. Plus the pain is getting worse.
I get out of bed, taking quick stock of the room. The guest room is nice, full of teals and dark wood, a little more updated than I would have thought, especially compared to the palace in Monaco. My bloodline has been occupying the same palace for 700 years, so while it’s often being rebuilt in certain places, it’s just not the same. It’s old as fuck.
I get dressed and head down the ornate and sweeping staircase to the first level. Thinking that there might be some royal breakfast, I’m starting down the hall toward the dining room, noting that some servants are cleaning the carpet where Snarf Snarf tracked in dirt last night, when I hear someone behind me.
It’s my stepmother.
“Orlando,” she says. Even though it’s early, she’s dressed in a flowing black dress that would be better suited on Matilde. “How are you feeling?”
“Honestly? I need some meds. Do you have any?”
Penelope basically carries an arsenal of all the best pain killers. I steal from her stash more times than I like to admit.
“Of course,” she says, patting my bad arm and then wincing. “Oh, I’m sorry. Why don’t you go sit down and have breakfast and I’ll go get some.”
“Don’t worry about it, I’m sure we have to push off soon.”
She grins at me. “Didn’t you hear? We’re staying a few more days.”
What?
I watch as she runs up the stairs and then I turn and head to the dining room. Didn’t I hear? I just got up and no one tells me shit.
The Royal Rogue Page 4